One Night at the Call Center Read online

  As we were walking in, the bouncer frisked us. I finally understood his function. When he'd done us, he approached Priyanka.

  “What?” I said to the bouncer.

  “I need to check this lady,” he said. “She looks like a troublemaker.” He towered over Priyanka.

  And then, I'm not sure how it happened but the following words came out of my mouth.

  “You're not touching her, you understand,” I said.

  The bouncer was startled and he turned to me. He had biceps the size of my thighs and I shuddered to think how much it would hurt if he delivered a punch.

  “What's up now?” the hostess came toward us.

  “Nothing, just teach your Mr. Tarzan out here how to behave in female company,” I said and pulled at Priyanka's hand. In a second we were inside.

  The interior design of Bed was a cross between Star Trek and a debauched king's harem, illuminated by ultraviolet bulbs and candles. As my eyes adjusted to the semidarkness I noticed two rows of six beds. Only five were occupied, so I couldn't understand the big fuss at the entrance. I guess it's never easy to get people into bed.

  We chose a corner bed, which had two hookahs next to it.

  “Why is the hostess so nasty?” Esha said as she hoisted herself onto the bed. She took two cushions to rest her elbows on. “Did you hear her? ‘Go somewhere else.’ Is that how you treat customers?”

  “It's their job. They're paid to be nasty. It gives the place attitude,” Vroom said carelessly as he lit up a hookah. I looked at the hot, smoldering coals and thought of Ganesh. I don't know why, but I thought it would be fun to drop some down his trousers.

  “I want a job that pays me to be nasty. All they tell us in the call center is, ‘Be nice, be polite, be helpful,’ but being mean is so much more fun,” Radhika said and reclined along one of the cushions. For someone who had just had a really tough night she looked good, although I'm not sure it's possible to look ugly in ultraviolet candlelight. I wondered how a moron called Anuj could cheat on her.

  Only Esha and Radhika got to lie down. The rest of us sat cross-legged on the bed.

  Vroom went to say hi to DJ Jas, who was playing some incomprehensible French-African-Indian fusion music, and returned with twelve kamikaze shots. Military Uncle declined, and we didn't protest as it meant more alcohol for us. Vroom took Uncle's extra shots and drank them in quick succession.

  We had barely finished our kamikazes when another thin woman—a Bed speciality—came up to us with another six drinks.

  “Long Island Iced Teas,” she said, “courtesy of DJ Jas.”

  “Nice. You have friends in the right places,” Radhika said as she started gulping her Long Island like it was a glass of water. When you don't get to drink on a regular basis, you go crazy at the chance.

  “These Long Islands are very strong,” I said after a few sips. I could feel my head spin. “Easy, guys,” I said, “our shift isn't over. We said one quick drink, so let's make our way back soon.”

  “Cool it, man. Just one last drink,” Vroom said as he ordered another set of cocktails.

  “I'm feeling high,” Priyanka said. “I'm going to miss this. I'm going to miss you guys.”

  “Yeah, right. We'll see when you move to Seattle. Here, guys, try this, it's apple flavored,” Vroom said as he took a big drag from the hookah. He passed it around, and everyone, except Military Uncle, whose expression was growing more resigned by the minute, took turns smoking it. DJ Jas's music was mellow, which went well with the long drags from the hookah.

  There were two flat LCD screens in front of our bed, one tuned to MTV and the other to CNN. A Bollywood number was being played on MTV, as part of its “Youth Special” program and a girl was gradually stripping off her clothing as the song progressed. The news breaking on CNN was about the U.S. invasion of Iraq. I noticed Vroom staring at the news.

  “Americans are sick,” Vroom said, as he pointed to a U.S. politician who had spoken out in support of the war. “Look at him. He'd nuke the whole world if he could have his way.”

  “No, not the whole world. I don't think they'd blow up

  China,” Priyanka said, sounding high. “They need the cheap labor.”

  “Then I guess they won't blow up Gurgaon either: They need the call centers,” Radhika said.

  “So we're safe,” Esha said, “that's good. Welcome to Gurgaon, the safest city on earth.”

  The girls started laughing and even Military Uncle smiled.

  “It's not funny, girls. Our government doesn't realize this, but Americans are using us. We're sacrificing an entire generation to service their call centers,” Vroom said, convincing me that one day he could be a politician.

  Nobody responded.

  “Don't you agree?” Vroom said.

  “Can you please stop this trip …” I began. As usual, I was put on mute.

  “C'mon, Vroom. Call centers are useful to us, too,” Esha said. “You know how hard it is to make fifteen grand a month outside. And here we are, sitting in an air-conditioned office, talking on the phone, collecting our pay and going home. And it's the same for hundreds and thousands of us. What's wrong with that?”

  “An air-conditioned sweatshop is still a sweatshop. In fact, it's worse, because nobody sees the sweat. Nobody sees your brain getting rammed,” Vroom said.

  “Then why don't you leave? Why are you still here?” I said.

  “Because I need the money. Money is what gets me into places like this,” Vroom said.

  “It's just Bakshi. You're worked up about him and now you're blaming it on the call center,” I said.

  “Screw Bakshi, he is not the only bad boss around. Come on, the whole world is being run by a bad, stupid-evil boss,” he said, pointing to CNN. “Look at them, scared out of their guts, ready to bomb everyone. Meanwhile, all we do is talk on the phone all night while the world snores,” Vroom said.

  “Stop complaining about night work. Doctors do it, hotel people do it, airplane pilots do it, factory workers… hell, even that door-bitch works at night,” Priyanka said.

  “There's nothing wrong with working at night. And I agree the money is good. But the difference is, we don't have jobs that allow us to show our potential. Look at our country, we're still so behind the Americans. Even when we know we are no less than them,” Vroom said, gesturing wildly at the TV screen.

  “So? What other kinds of jobs are there?” Esha said with a hairclip in her mouth. She had begun the ritual of untying and retying her hair.

  “Well, we should be building roads for a start. Power plants, airports, phone networks, metro trains. And if the government moves its rear end in the right direction, young people in this country will find jobs. Hell, I would work day and night for that, as long as I know that what I'm doing is helping build something for my country, for its future. But the government doesn't believe in doing any real work, so they allow these Business Process

  Outsourcing places to be opened and think they have taken care of the youth. Just like stupid MTV thinks showing a demented chick do a dance in her underwear will turn the program into a youth special. Do you think they really care?”

  “Who?” I said. “The government or MTV?” I got up and signaled for the check—in bars you always ask for the “check,” never the “bill.” It was 3:50 a.m. and I had had enough of Vroom's lecture. I wanted to get back to the call center soon.

  Vroom paid the bill with his credit card and we promised to split it later.

  “Neither of them give a fuck,” Vroom said as we left.

  The door-bitch and the bouncer gave us a puzzled look as we walked out.

  Chapter 28

  4:00 a.m.

  VROOM DROVE US AWAY FROM BED and we were soon back on the highway. Every now and then the Qualis would sway to the left or right of the road.

  “Careful,” Esha said. “You OK, Vroom?”

  “I'm fine. Man, I love driving,” Vroom said dreamily.

  “I can drive if you …” I s